


The Otherworld

by igraine1419



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 10:06:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/673205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/igraine1419/pseuds/igraine1419
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A secret ritual unfolds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Otherworld

I wasn’t born to this, you remember. The warrens and rivers of Buckland formed me. Swept along in a current of noise and activity, I was always running with the pack; hiding in the fringes of the forest, laying traps, chasing a winding ribbon through Farmer Maggot’s fields of waving wheat, snarling hounds scenting my trail. I loved the company of friends, I played up to them. I was always the first to break into song, always the first to make a dare. 

Hobbiton was so quiet I could hardly stand it. I used to climb to the summit of the hill and look down over the sleepy village and count the folk I spied on the fingers of one hand. My heart ached for the danger and the freedom and the hiding places I had fathomed in the trees. 

It is said that Bilbo rescued me. That he saw in me a spark of the adventurous youth he once had been before the call of home and hearth had grown too strong. Truth be told, I think he was lonely and wanted a piece of the old home to bring back with him to Hobbiton and that glimmer of wildness that was in me, he sensed might easily be tamed. 

And what am I to do now that Bilbo has gone? It is true I have grown used to the silence of this place and the utter dark no longer frightens me at night. But the walls whisper and the rooms contract and I wonder about the world outside and how I might have strode out into it, if my head had not been filled with the knowledge of the dangers that lurk beyond our sight. Sometimes I walk to the borders of the Shire, just to sense the prickle of fear that races up the back of my spine and into my blood and bone. It enervates me and sends me home with a brisker step, no longer quite so afraid of the cloistering rooms and the silence, as the early dusk settles over the hills. 

It would be unbearable if it were not for Sam. Sam lights the fires when the first chill of evening is felt on the air. He leaves his hoeing and pruning to tend to the hearths so that there will be no dampness and dark on my return. He will bake something for supper and sometimes he will sit at the table and share it with me. 

Looking out at the gathering autumn dark, we watch the leaves spinning down like ghosts from the trees. Sometimes he will meet my eye and sometimes he will look down at his bowl and play with his spoon, and the soft golden curls of his hair will droop into his eyes. It is at these times I love him best - he seems so bashful and soft, as if I could spoon him like honey into my mouth. 

I am not his better. In fact he is far better brought up than I ever was. I was an orphan and spent my days running wild - out of control, provoking mischief, tempting down ghosts from the haunted trees. I’m not worthy to kiss his feet, and yet he does so much for me, he risks everything. 

I don’t know how he saw the need in me; but he did. I think it was autumn then, there were apples baking in the oven, bursting sweet-sour, their skins blackened and blistered. He grasped my wrist over the table, the chair scraping across the flagstones as he stretched out his arm, his fingers curling tight, quite strong, feeling the pulsing of my veins. I looked down at his hand, at the nut-brown skin, scratched with the delicate barbs of roses, nicked at the knuckle, his bones hard beneath, tautly stretched and raised proud under the skin. I looked at the stained blue weave of his cuff, the tattered threads drifting. I felt the quickening of my breath, the hard hammering of my heart. I was scared to ask, scared to imagine that he might know what it was that I desired most. 

He pulled me; a sudden jerk, my teacup upturning with a soft chime as pale tea swamped the table top and dripped onto the floor. I raised my head and he nodded, just a subtle movement of his head, his eyes very dark, the green-brown of the earth outside with the leaves lying over it. 

We went then into the parlour, leaving the pool of tea spreading onto the floor and the teacup rolling in its saucer and the back door still on the latch, struggling to hold against the buffeting of the wind. 

The fire was lit, we needed no other light. It was better this way. To be turned against the door as it slammed in the draught and pinned there by a look and an idea. He clasped my wrists in his hand and held them above my head and just observed, his mouth thoughtful, loosened, as if preparing itself for words. Everywhere his eyes wandered, I felt their trail, as if he were walking through wet grass, or running his finger across a head of ale. I bit my lip and waited, as he moved closer, almost touching, holding my hands above my head as he breathed along the length of my neck. Tiny prickles rose to the surface of my skin as if he had touched me with his hands or his tongue, but there was only breath between us. I never wanted the waiting to end. I felt it hot inside, deep, uncurling, making me sweat. I felt my blood pound and my cock stiffen. I wanted to moan, but I wanted more, so I kept silent. Stepping back, he jerked my hands again, running his fingers across the sensitive skin of my wrist. My eyelids fell heavy. He told me to open my eyes, and I opened my eyes. 

He breathed against my ear, a light hot caress and I shivered hard, turning my face into the cool wooden panel of the door.

I swallowed, trembling as he released me. I wanted to grab hold of him and pull him back, but instead I let him go without a word, out into the wind and the rain and the darkness. 

It became a ritual then, for Sam to come early to make the dinner so that we might sit and eat together on a Friday when the week’s work was done and there were apples in the oven, baking crisp with sugar and a coating of cinnamon on their skins. We ate them sometimes, if we were in the mood to wait but more often than not they exploded and turn to apple sauce in the bottom of the dish, to be scooped out later with delving, eager spoons.

We never spoke about what was to come, we didn’t have any reason to. It was there, in the darkness of his eyes as he looked at me over the table and stroked the back of my hand as I reached for the bread, a quick flick and a smile. A curiously innocent smile which promised things you would never imagine he knew. He is always the one to rise first, holding out his hand, and in those moments, walking through the kitchen and into the parlour, before we enter the otherworld, we share a peace between us where no seperation exists, only the shared touch of our hands and our single intent.

Sometimes he likes to remove all my clothes and lay me down over the couch so that he can run his fingers feather-light along the length of my spine. Raising my hips, he falls between to touch and tease, kneeling behind me, hidden from sight, the flames dancing before my eyes as heat pricks my skin. To be so exposed is frightening and wonderful and when he parts my thighs, my muscles quiver and clench under his hands. He licks me and my mouth falls open on a cry. It is almost unbearable. I would give him my soul if I could. 

We don’t talk; we try not to moan. It is as if we are afraid of what will fall out of our mouths. He clutches with his hands, slipping on sweat, he kisses my throat, my shoulders, my spine. He marks me with his teeth and I will him on. I will him deeper. He pushes hard and I dig my fingers into the arm of the couch and ride it out. 

Sometimes we have no patience for the game and he will shove my breeches down around my knees and press up into me where I stand against the door and it will be desperate and wild and the mouldings on the panel will score into my face, but it is worth every single mark.

He is so beautiful then, breathing fast against my ear as he starts to come, his fingers pressing into my hips, pulling me back, possessing me as I long to be possessed. I want to kiss his mouth, I want to love him back, but instead I close my eyes and feel the stars begin to burst in the darkness beneath.

One night, as he withdraws with a shiver, I turn and kneel, holding out my hand as he buttons up his breeches. He looks at me with hesitation and uncertainty and I nod. His eyes shine, they are so green I can almost believe it is spring again. He drops his shirt and lies down beside me on the narrow couch in the fireglow. I slide a cushion beneath his head and trail my fingers down his cheek. His skin glows warm, his mouth softens and smiles. I can taste myself on my skin, in his sweat, in the slide of his breath. I love him. We lie like this for hours, not speaking, sharing little touches of fingers and lips and the dance of lashes against cheeks and lips and throats. I become familiar with the rhythm of his blood, with the pattern of his blinking, with the beating of his heart. I know him inside and out and he knows me. 

Eventually, driven by hunger, Sam will rise and go to fetch the apples. Dipping into the dish, we eat them from each other’s fingers, sucking and sharing, sealing the sharpness and the sweet. Kissing like lovers, slipping into sleep.


End file.
